Coffee
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Sequel to The Pint (Reunion series). "Sherlock? You're awake, I um— shit." There was a horrible, pregnant pause in which John sucked in a noisy breath and exhaled wetly. John was upset? Why? Sherlock's mouth went dry. Oh—"Sorry, sorry. God, um, it's Mary, and she's – she's in surgery now and I didn't— I knew you'd be awake-"


**Title:** Coffee

**Author:** Mildredandbobbin

**Rating:** T

**Pairings/characters:** John & Sherlock, John/Mary (background)

**Warnings/contents:** Character death, drug references, angst, friendship, possible pre-slash, hurt/comfort

**Parts:** 1/1 complete

**Summary:** Sequel to The Pint (Reunion series). "Sherlock? You're awake, I um— shit." There was a horrible, pregnant pause in which John sucked in a noisy breath and exhaled wetly. John was upset? Why? Sherlock's mouth went dry. _Oh_—"Sorry, sorry. God, um, it's Mary, and she's – she's in surgery now and I didn't— I knew you'd be awake-"

* * *

**Coffee**

Sherlock sat on the sofa, arrayed in front of him were the necessary paraphernalia for an evening of pure, focused thought. An element of the case was eluding him, the connections unsatisfactory and unclear. It had gone beyond fascinating into frustrating and he had no conductor of light. The John in his mind palace was being ridiculously recalcitrant (had been ever since the real John became a nebulous possibility).

The real John was unavailable. Oh he could be relied upon to reply to a text with an appropriately enthusiastic adjective (fantastic, brilliant, amazing) but he was _there_ and he wasn't _here._ They maintained a tremulous connection, a friendship with irregular contact that left a gaping vacancy to remind Sherlock of what once was. It bothered him that he cared, that John's occasional attention was _not enough_. John's friendship had opened a door that Sherlock seemed inexplicably unable to shut. He could feel John drifting ever further away without cases or a flat share to moor them together. What was there now except a mutual regard that was steadily being eroded?

It was three months and three days since John had married Mary. Three months and eighteen days since John finally let Sherlock explain why he'd faked his own death and disappeared for three years. Four months and twelve days since Sherlock came back from the dead and discovered that his best friend, the person for whom he'd suffered and risked everything, had moved out of their flat and had moved on. It had been eight days since he'd last seen John (for _coffee_) and it had been twenty-four days since John had last come to a crime scene (and then he'd brought along Mary and Sherlock hadn't asked—wheedled- again).

He lifted the vial and watched the opalescent swirl of the clear liquid. He replaced it on the table and his fingers ghosted over the rest of the accoutrements. There was a pleasure in anticipation and ritual.

The sound of John's ringtone shattered Sherlock's silent contemplation. John didn't call. It was after midnight. _John didn't call._ Needles forgotten he grabbed at the phone and pressed receive.

"John."

"Sherlock? You're awake, I um— shit." There was a horrible, pregnant pause in which John sucked in a noisy breath and exhaled wetly. John was upset? Why? Sherlock's mouth went dry. _Oh—_ "Sorry, sorry. God, um, it's Mary, and she's – she's in surgery now and I didn't— I knew you'd be awake-"

"John. What happened?"

He heard John inhale again. "Mary – she was in an accident."

"Where are you?"

"University College A&E."

"I'm coming now."

He found John seated on one of the waiting room chairs, bowed over, head sunk in his hands, legs and shoulders shaking with repressed tension. He looked up as Sherlock took a seat next to him. His face was pale and tense but Sherlock sighed in relief: there was no sign of harm, he hadn't been involved in the accident.

"Sherlock," John said and his voice was rough. "Thanks. Thanks for—"

"It's fine," said Sherlock. He wondered what he should say. What did one say in these situations when you weren't trying to uncover evidence and the necessary data to solve a crime? "What happened-" No. "How is Mary?" Better.

"Um, she's in surgery, I don't know. She was um, pinned, extensive internal injuries—" He rubbed his face and sucked in a breath. "Head on collision, it was raining. The other driver was killed."

Sherlock swallowed. "I'm sorry, John," he offered, a sick discomfort settling inside. He always hated these messy emotional scenes. Somehow this time it was far worse.

"Mary had been at her sister's. I begged off at the last minute—" John leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. "I'm going crazy waiting. Talk to me. Tell me about your latest…whatever."

Sherlock studied him for a long moment, then leaned back as well and began to tell John about the case that was frustrating him. He stepped through the evidence, the crime scene, the incompetence of Forensics in particular and the Met in general. He detailed the stumbling blocks and the solutions, the discoveries and the failures. All the while John sat, or stood or paced. He answered frantic calls from Mary's family and friends. He wandered over to the desk to ask for updates that weren't forthcoming. He disappeared at one point and returned with two coffees.

Sherlock had sunk into silence when John had walked away, mulling over the problem in the galaxy of his own mind.

"Keep going," John said and handed him his coffee.

Sherlock looked at him sharply but took the coffee and continued, the words pouring out as if they'd been cut loose. He was rambling now, but it didn't matter, John didn't care. John just wanted words and Sherlock wanted to give them.

Suddenly there was a connection and Sherlock could see the answer, stretching before him, clear and true. He whipped out his phone and fired off a text to Lestrade and sank back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.

"You solved it."

Oh. John. Sherlock looked over at him in surprise, unused now, to having a witness to his moments of genius.

"Yes," he said simply. What else was there to say?

"Well, aren't you going to tell me?" John asked.

Oh. Sherlock wondered if the sharp jolt of pleasure at this thought was a bit not good, but he did tell John, simply and without flourish - the thrill of the reveal somehow muted. John sat and stared at his hands and nodded. He looked up when Sherlock was finished, lips twisted crookedly, not really a smile. "You really are brilliant, aren't you?" he said.

Sherlock felt a lump in his throat. He tried to smile in return but couldn't quite manage it.

"I'm sure she'll be all right, John." A lie, but that's what people did in these situations; reassure at all costs.

John looked away again and returned to studying his hands.

After eleven and a half hours of surgery John was finally given some news. Mary was in the ICU, on life-support. They had done all they could. She wasn't expected to regain consciousness. John was allowed to see her.

Sherlock, standing beside him, felt him sag. He reached out and placed his hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

"I—" John shot a glance at him. "Now?" he asked the Doctor and seconds later he was gone, disappearing into the halls of the hospital.

Sherlock watched him go and then turned and left the hospital.

* * *

The funeral was held a week and two days later. Mary had gone into cardiac arrest three days after the surgery. She never woke up.

Sherlock went to the funeral with Mrs Hudson. The congregation was filled with the same faces from the wedding three months and twelve days earlier. Mary's friends, Mary's family. People who knew both Mary and John, people who knew Mary through John. Sadness, such a heavy, useless emotion, permeated everything. He'd only met Mary on three occasions (resented her) yet it affected him too. How must it feel to lose someone you truly cared about? He'd had an inkling once (terrible, aching, untenable), and had thrown himself from a building to make sure he didn't happen.

He watched John carry in the coffin with two of Mary's brothers, John's best man from the wedding, and two strangers.

John sat at the front of the church, ever the soldier: back straight, jaw clenched, every muscle held taut, emotion held in check - except during the hymn his shoulders shook, and, when he read Mary's eulogy, so did his voice, raw and husky. Sherlock had to look away. It hurt to see John like this; trying to hide the nakedness of his grief.

Mary's body was laid to rest in a memorial garden, a pretty word for a graveyard. Ritual and ceremony - dirt scattered, flowers laid, words said. Afterwards the other mourners went on to the reception or stood talking in groups, sharing their mutual bereavement. Only John remained by the grave. He stared at it, jaw clenched, hands in fists by his side. He looked up as Sherlock stepped beside him and the loss and anger in his eyes made Sherlock flinch. His chest ached and for a second he was falling again. Strange this, that John's pain could hurt so much.

"John—"

"Don't," he said, short and sharp and turned back to glare at the headstone. "Don't you say a word."

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut. After a few minutes John exhaled, nodded once then turned and walked away.

Sherlock stood on the periphery at the reception; it was Mrs Hudson who had wanted to go. Molly, Lestrade, Mike Stamford were all there, paying their respects. Sherlock scanned the room once more for John. He was standing to the right, ambushed again by Mary's sister and Harriet. He could see the tension radiating from John's body, his body language stiff: trying to be polite. The two women had been at him all day, trying to convince him to stay with one of them, vying for the honour of caring for the grieving widower. John looked down at his feet, ears flushed, trying not to lose his temper.

Sherlock stepped closer.

"John, it's no bother, really, and I'd just hate you to be alone tonight—" said Harriet.

"Our place is only fifteen minutes to your clinic—" said Mary's sister.

"That won't be necessary," said Sherlock as he stepped forward. "John is coming back with me tonight, aren't you John?"

John looked at him sharply but there – anger yes, but also relief. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, daring John to refuse. John met his gaze, annoyed, irritated but also, yes, amused. The corner of his mouth quirked up and Sherlock knew he would have uttered an expletive at him if the women hadn't been hovering like vultures.

"Yeah, I am. Sorry, I should have mentioned—I wasn't sure – yeah, if the offer's still open, Sherlock?"

"Of course. Let me know when you're ready to leave."

* * *

It was quiet in the flat. Sherlock wanted to compress and silence himself. It seemed obscene to be loud in the face of John's grief.

John kept it to himself, tucked it close to his chest, but Sherlock saw it in every line, in every word, in every movement. He saw it, through the glass panel in the bathroom door, when John leaned against the hand basin, shower running to drown any noise, shoulders shaking and shaking. He saw it when John went to bed at seven pm and emerged red-eyed in the morning claiming tiredness. It was an abomination that John should feel this weighted agony.

Sherlock handed him his coffee and sat next to him on the sofa. The words he wanted to say stuck in his throat and he fiddled with the tie on his dressing gown.

"John," he said finally. "I am sorry that I ever gave you cause to grieve."

John looked into his coffee, silent for a long moment, and then huffed a short, broken laugh.

"Right. Thanks. God-" He shook his head and set his mug down on the coffee table. "Sherlock, I-" he began and Sherlock felt his stomach drop; after all, conditional forgiveness could be revoked. Then John looked up and met Sherlock's eyes. "I could really use a hug right now. If you don't mind."

Sherlock exhaled with relief, and then carefully lay his right arm around John's shoulders as John slid both arms around Sherlock's middle and pressed his face into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock clutched John's arm with his left hand and held on. John was holding him. He was holding John. Relief and a peculiar sort of pain flooded through him. It was not at all uncomfortable. It was…good.

John's shoulders shook and Sherlock's chest got damp but he found he did not mind.


End file.
